


i can see clearly now

by juliabaccari



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, i'm sorry but have you seen aaron in glasses it should be ILLEGAL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliabaccari/pseuds/juliabaccari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras keeps getting terrible headaches. The obvious answer is a brain tumor - no, wait, glasses. He definitely just needs glasses.</p>
<p>This is extremely appealing to Grantaire. Appealing, and sort of torturous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can see clearly now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [screwsfallout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screwsfallout/gifts).



Enjolras is exhausted, overworked, and potentially dehydrated. He is probably underdressed for the weather and he is definitely underfed for life in general.

He has been in the kitchen staring at these posters for probably three hours. Maybe five. He lost count, and it doesn’t matter, as long as they turn out perfectly. Of course that will be very hard to accomplish when he is currently the only one left awake and the words on the page are swimming before him. He’s also no artist – usually Feuilly or Grantaire will design the posters and Enjolras will not touch them except to make a final approval. Unfortunately Feuilly is far too busy with having an actual job, and Enjolras is pretty sure Grantaire drank himself to sleep on the living room couch like an hour ago.

He could probably go and check, but if Grantaire’s not currently shadowing him, that’s a pretty clear indication that whatever state he’s in – he’s not available to help with the poster.

“Enjolras.” An exhausted voice floats in from the doorway, and he looks up to see his roommate (and best friend) Combeferre staring at him with a patient, if weary, expression. “It’s four am. Let our kitchen go back to being a kitchen for a moment, and let your bed be a bed.”

They’d been shuffled out of The Musain around 10pm, and Enjolras had – without consulting his roommate, who nevertheless put up no complaints – transformed their apartment into the new Les Amis d’ABC command center. Their kitchen counter was a makeshift art station currently. Enjolras, reminded of the banners, frowned down at them.

“I can’t, I –” Where before there had been a dull sort of pounding, a sudden ache bloomed in his temples, halting him. “Ugh.”

Combeferre’s brow furrowed in concern. “What is it?”

“Headache. I’ll be fine.”

“The posters will still be there in a few hours. Feuilly says he’ll come over on his lunch hour, if Grantaire’s too hung-over to help you.” Combeferre smiles, a bit fondly, indulgently. Like it’s an old joke. Enjolras scowls. He doesn’t like it when they make light of Grantaire’s constant drunkenness: it only encourages the man not to change. It makes the alcohol seem like an acceptable part of him. To Enjolras, it is not.

“He’ll be fine.” He says, hard, as if saying it will make it so. His head is positively throbbing now so he allows himself to walk away from the posters, following Combeferre up the stairs. They part in the hallway, Combeferre to his own room, and Enjolras opens the first door on the right to his room. He usually ignores his exhaustion until he can’t, and then he sleeps restlessly for a few hours until he can return to his work, but he’s thinking that maybe tonight he’ll have a nice long sleep. Five hours, even.

His hopes are squashed when he turns to his bed and he realizes where, exactly, Grantaire has passed out.

Silently, he curses the other man. H knows from experience there will be no waking him until Grantaire is ready to wake. But Enjolras is definitely not sleeping on the couch, not with his head like this. So he sighs – resigned – and begins stripping off his outer layers. Grantaire can just fucking deal with sharing. He probably won’t know the difference, and Enjolras will be awake before him, anyway.

He slides into bed in his boxers, feeling too lethargic and aching to bother with sleep pants or anything like that. Enjolras, who has never shared his bed with anyone, is surprised to find how…pleasant it is, to find it already warm. It’s a little awkward to fit himself in besides Grantaire, but once he gets over the strange sensation of another body just touching the side of his, it’s not actually that hard to fall asleep.

Unfortunately, he sleeps a little too well, because when he awakes it’s to the sight of a (really smug and really infuriating) grin filled with slightly crooked teeth, framed in a face surrounded by wild dark curls. Grantaire looks positively gleeful. Enjolras groans.

“Bonjour, sweetheart. How did you sleep?” His tone is mocking. “You looked like an peaceful little angel, _mon ange_ , I’m sorry if I woke you.” Enjolras smacks Grantaire’s hand away when he goes to pat Enjolras’s cheek, and he’s surprised to find the other man actually looks kind of hurt.

“You should be more hung-over.” This is the only thing Enjolras can think to say beyond the mortification blooming in his chest. And he’s furious, too, that he should even be embarrassed because this is _his_ bed. If anyone, it’s Grantaire who should be uncomfortable. But he never is.

“You know better than that. But you – you look so exhausted it’s almost human, and you slept past the sunrise, are you sure _you’re_ not hung-over? ”

“What time is it?” Enjolras demands, ignoring the rest of that sentence, ignoring the headache still pulsing behind his eyes.

“Mm, nine? I don’t know. Still very early. Don’t fret.”

Enjolras shoots straight up, nearly knocking Grantaire over in the process, and scrambles for his alarm clock on the nightstand. He has to bring it close to his eyes to read it – must be the dregs of sleep blurring his vision – and indeed, it’s blinking 9:30am. He’s wasted so much time.

“Enjolras, relax.” And then Grantaire’s hand is on his shoulder – but once he seems to realize he’s touching bare skin, he pulls it away like he’s been burned. “Sorry.” Enjolras does not particularly like to be touched, and it’s sort of an unspoken rule that Grantaire especially refrains from it, because they know – they all know –

Well. They don’t talk about it.

Enjolras supposes this is his fault, for getting into this bed in the first place. Grantaire’s looking a bit skittish, wounded, so Enjolras slides away. He stands up and the sun shining in his eyes sets off another blasted headache, distracting him. He grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut and reaching up to hold his temple.

“Apollo?” Grantaire sounds concerned and Enjolras forces his eyes open. Which is a terrible idea. Black spots dance before his vision and he shakes his head, sinking back into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He feels the bed shift as Grantaire sits up a bit further behind him.

“It’s just a headache.”

Enjolras can feel Grantaire hovering behind him, probably wanting to reach out to and touch, but he must be holding himself back because Enjolras only feels that odd sensation of not-quite touching, like a buzz of static in the air. All he wants to do right now is bury his head into some dark, cool space and stay there until he feels normal. He doesn’t even care that there’s a poster downstairs only halfway finished when usually he’d be ordering Grantaire to go and paint it. He crumples forward as another bolt of lightning ravages his skull. Grantaire breaks his rule then - or is it Enjolras’s rule, he doesn’t know, but he does know he’s grateful now for Grantaire’s careful hands guiding him to lie down. They’re artist’s hands, large but delicate, and he gives himself over to them because it feels better than making any movements by himself. He feels his head come to rest in Grantaire’s lap and then those wonderful hands are cool on his face – fingers dancing at his temples, and he nearly sighs out loud in relief. His head is still pounding, but Grantaire’s light massage gives him something more pleasant to focus on. The tension seems to drain from him. Enjolras considers if there’d be harm in just a short nap. There are waves inside his skull, battering his brain, but Grantaire’s hands are there to hold them back. He wants to stay here.

This is inexplicable, and he does not care.

\---

When he wakes up again he is unbelievably groggy, but his head does not hurt. He feels warm all over, which is strange, because they cannot afford heat and it is the middle of winter in Paris. Enjolras doesn’t really want to be conscious, but now that he feels better, he’s beginning to get anxious about all the work that needs to be done before the next rally. He attempts to sit up and quickly realizes there’s something restricting his movement.

It’s Grantaire – and Enjolras really shouldn’t be so shocked. But Grantaire is all over him, and suddenly he can feel their limbs tangled at every point, like his nerve endings have woken up all at once. Grantaire’s arm is thrown around Enjolras’s chest and his head is right on the pillow next to his own. In fact, if he focuses, he can feel the other man’s breath against his ear.

His heart starts to pound erratically.

He’s never done this. He’s never had someone hold him like this. The last time he even fell asleep beside someone it was just little Gavroche. He and Eponine had taken refuge from their parents at his apartment, and the little boy had ended up taken a strange liking to Enjolras (who, in his own opinion, was and is terrible with kids) and falling asleep in his bed.

This is very, very different.

Because Grantaire is a full-grown man who has made no secret that he is…enamored with Enjolras, for lack of a better word. He would not call it love, because he does not know if the cynic believes in love. He does not know if Grantaire is even truly attracted to him - he calls him lovely, beautiful, god-like, and he paints him at every turn (Enjolras pretends not to hear when their friends tease Grantaire about his new gallery exhibit, and how it looks an awful lot like _someone they know_ ) but is it worship or does he want…?

And why is Enjolras asking himself that question at all? He doesn’t care if Grantaire wants to fuck him. It makes no difference, because he does not want to sleep with Grantaire. He doesn’t want anyone.

Just as he begins to ponder how best to untangle himself without waking Grantaire, the man in question shifts even closer (how is that possible, what space is there around Enjolras that is not Grantaire, hell, what part of his body is not touching the other man?) and mutters something in his ear. Enjolras immediately stiffens, but relaxes slightly when he realizes Grantaire was just talking in his sleep. Still, he can’t – he can’t stay here. His body feels strange. It’s foreign to him, this hum of feeling underneath his skin, and it’s making him anxious and he just – can’t.

Grantaire shifts again, and his lips brush Enjolras’s neck, and he practically bolts out of the bed. He tears free of Grantaire’s hold, and the other man grumbles in response but does not wake. Enjolras thanks God that the brunet tends to sleep like he’s dead.

Enjolras stares for a moment. For a moment, he is the artist and Grantaire is his subject, dark curls spread out on ( _Enjolras’s_ ) beige sheets, strong and lean limbs cast out as if claiming the space as his own, and it is such an appealing picture he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s never been an aesthetic person like this.

He paces, twice back and forth across his floor. He takes a deep breath. And he leaves. Free of the room, he feels normal again. Enjolras tells himself he just slept too much – and the weirdness has passed. He has things to do, after all.

-

It becomes apparent that despite his rest, Enjolras is not in top working form. He can barely read for some reason, all the words seem to shake slightly before his eyes unless he’s practically on top of them, and the dull pounding in his skull is back within an hour of breakfast (well, lunch really, and it was just some toast Combeferre practically shoved down his throat). The only people still here are his roommate, Courfeyrac, and Jehan. Courfeyrac and Jehan are decidedly not working on anything for the rally, unless Jehan is perhaps writing slogans all over Courfeyrac’s arm. But Enjolras rather suspects it’s more poetry. Jehan is constantly running out of notebooks and using his friends’ body parts instead.

And, well, Grantaire is probably still in the apartment.

He comes down the stairs just as the thought crosses Enjolras’s mind, and he just resists the urge to say ‘speak of the devil’, because Grantaire will probably run with that.

As soon as their eyes lock Grantaire smirks at Enjolras, but there’s also a strange touch of tenderness in his gaze. It makes him instantly uncomfortable and he is _blushing_ and dear God, he must be terribly ill. Yes. That is what this is. He is ill.

“Is Joly coming back here today?” He asks aloud, and instantly Grantaire looks concerned.

“Is it your head again?” He asks, earnestly, and Courfeyrac looks up from his spot on the living room couch with a suggestively raised eyebrow.

“Oh my, what did you do to him, Grantaire? You kept our leader hostage for some time, but surely we would have heard the banging if you were getting rough –” Jehan place a finger on his friend’s lips, and shakes his head. Not many people could shut Courfeyrac up, but no one likes to say no to the group’s little poet. Especially Courfeyrac.

“We were just sleeping.” Enjolras, bizarrely, feels the need to clarify. But of course they were just sleeping, because he would never – they would never – and everyone knows that. They know it. “I have a headache. And I feel – warm.”

“Mon ami, I don’t think those two things are related.” Courfeyrac pipes up in an amused tone, but he does throw a guilty look at Jehan after. The poet just sighs.

“Of course they are.” Enjolras snaps, frustrated. “I’m sick, obviously. I slept for hours more than I usually do and I’m still exhausted and warm and I can’t read this stupid fucking flyer and –”

He is panicking a little bit, to be fair, but he doesn’t think the extraordinarily wide-eyed gazes of his friends are appropriate to the situation. Nor does he need Grantaire stepping forward to take his arm and lead him over to the couch. He could sit on his own if he wanted to, thanks very much. But where normally he would protest he lets Grantaire set him down and squeeze into the space next to him. He’s sitting too close. Enjolras feels out of control. It is a new, and unpleasant feeling.

Well, feelings in general are sort of unpleasant in his opinion, unless they’re passion for the cause.

“Someone call Joly.” Grantaire mutters. This time, his hands on Enjolras’s face do make him actually sigh, but by now the headache is so fierce he can’t even bother to be embarrassed. He takes it as a good sign Courfeyrac does not wolf-whistle or something. Or maybe that’s bad. Maybe he’s really sick.

“Shouldn’t we take him to the university clinic?” Jehan asks, quietly.

“No insurance.” Combeferre supplies, and as usual he is the one executing the plan, taking out his phone to call their med student friend. Technically, he is also a medical student, but his work is in training to become a paramedic – trauma, first response (a skill that comes in especially handy during some rallies, which they all would rather not think about). Joly considers himself more of a general physician…and he is also a hypochondriac, which is possibly not what Enjolras needs but it’s the best they have.

“It’s just a headache.” He attempts to protest, but his words don’t seem to come out right, and it definitely doesn’t make his friends look reassured. He sighs and lets himself lean into Grantaire’s touch. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Combeferre looking at him with a strange type of consideration that he can’t read.

He closes his eyes. He does not want to deal with this.

Joly is there in less than 15 minutes, looking a bit harried and anxious. He may be in a constant state of panic about his own health, but he’s quite serious about caring for his friends. Enjolras is sort of passed over to him via Grantaire, but it does not escape his notice that the brunet stays hovering nearby for the whole examination.

It’s a lot of light touches and prodding and some questions he really doesn’t want to answer, and there’s a point at which Joly is actual shining a flashlight in his eyes, which fuck no, and then the room falls into utter silence as Joly’s face turns grave.

“Joly, what is it.” Grantaire’s voice is oddly measured, and way too serious for him, and this is all fucking stupid.

It’s just a headache.

“Enjolras.” Joly’s using his “kindly doctor” voice on him, and Enjolras scowls.

“What?” He snaps, impatient.

“Enjolras, don’t be alarmed.” He clears his throat, and Enjolras is not alarmed, he is pissed off. “But you may have a brain tumor.”

The room erupts into chaos. Well, maybe it’s more accurate to say Grantaire erupts into chaos; he flies at Joly, his hand around the smaller man’s throat. His eyes are deadly furious like it’s Joly’s fault, and he’s half-screaming, _“Don’t you fucking say that, don’t you dare,”_ until Combeferre and Courfeyrac are both dispatched to drag him away. Joly looks on the verge of passing out, but he’s only shaking a little bit, and Jehan’s got a calming hand on his arm. The whole thing lasts barely five seconds but Enjolras is completely _over it_.

“Grantaire.” He says in a fine, steel-laced voice, and watches as the tension drops from the other man. Combeferre and Courfeyrac take one look at each other and release him, but Grantaire stays still. “You are being ridiculous.” Enjolras admonishes him, and then turns to Joly. “I’m sorry, Joly. But you are also being ridiculous. I do not have a brain tumor.”

Suddenly, it hits him.

“I need to go to the optometrist.”

-

Enjolras remembers, vaguely, asking his father why he wore “windows” over his eyes. He was about five, and this was when he couldn’t say with any definite conviction that he hated his father.

(Of course by seven he was swearing it, so the ‘good times’ didn’t last long).

His father told him they helped him read, Enjolras promptly decided glasses were magical, and then forgot about it.

Now – he thinks he should have been paying more attention since everyone in his family wears reading glasses. Enjolras is not, apparently, immune to that genetic deficiency. And it bothers him far more than it should. In his head, a revolutionary leader of men and champion of political rights should not have to pull out glasses every time he needs to approve a banner or something.

The selection of frames before him does not comfort him any. He cannot decide if any of them look dignified enough – mostly they all look ridiculous to him.

“Is that _really_ in fashion?” He asks the sales lady skeptically, and to her credit, she does not roll her eyes. She’s been with him for nearly half an hour while he waits for Courfeyrac and Combeferre to come help him. He doesn’t even notice her relief when they come in through the doors and allow her to wander away.

“I can’t wear these.” Enjolras professes hopelessly to his two best friends, and while Combeferre looks at him with mild sympathy, Courfeyrac is already grinning and pulling frames from the wall.

“You can and you will!” Courfeyrac exclaims joyfully, pushing a dark-rimmed pair of spectacles at Enjolras’s face. To avoid being poked in the eye, Enjolras begrudgingly slides them on. He frowns at his reflection.

“These are hipster glasses.” He says dryly.

He looks ridiculous.

Courfeyrac makes him buy them anyway.

\--

He wonders if Grantaire is choking.

Enjolras can't imagine what he'd be choking on, since there's no evidence he was eating anything when Enjolras walked in, but he is turning an alarming shade of red and making the strangest noise.

He figures it's a good sign that Grantaire is making any noise at all. Probably not choking then.

"Grantaire...?" He prompts, extremely patiently in his opinion. The artist is in Enjolras's apartment _uninvited_ after all, and he was sort of looking forward to giving his glasses a test run by reading over the latest draft of his speech. Alone. Without commentary.

"Oh, God..." Is what Grantaire finally manages to say, and he holds up a hand in warning to stop as Enjolras moves to come closer.

"Are you okay?" He asks, cautiously, raising an eyebrow. He does his best not to look to irritated. Grantaire is obviously in distress, which he feels bad about - it's just sort of an inconvenient emotion to Enjolras right now.

"I did not think you could get any more attractive, Apollo, but those, _things_ , well - this is wildly unfair and you're just gonna have to give me a moment."

Enjolras is shocked.

"What, these?" He pulls off the glasses and looks at them like they are a foreign object. Grantaire _whines_.

"Put them back on." The dark haired man says, and his voice - it's practically husky - hits Enjolras in an unexpected way. He looks up, catches Grantaire's gaze, and - oh. _Oh._

Enjolras hasn't seen anyone look that way at him. He's only ever seen that look in porn, for heaven's sake (and yes he watches porn, Enjolras may not be a fan of casual sex but he's not a prude.)

"G-grantaire..." His voice is a bit tremulous. 

"Put them back on." Grantaire repeats. He steps forward. Enjolras is frozen in place - he lets the slightly taller man crowd into his space, feels his hands close around the frames Enjolras is still holding. He takes them gently from Enjolras's hands and slides them onto the blond's face with a strange sort of reverence that doesn't match the downright lusty look in his eyes.

"Ok. So. I shouldn't make you do this, Enjolras, I hate to put this on you, I know we don't talk about it but - I need you to tell me to walk away now. I need you to tell me not to kiss you." Grantaire says, slowly and deliberately, keeling their gazes locked.

"Why would I do that?" Enjolras asks quietly.

"Why -?" Grantaire's expression seems to suggest that Enjolras has gone crazy. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong with your brain? I want you, Apollo, you know I do and normally I shut the fuck up about it but you look like _sin_ and I want to have you up against that goddamn wall right now so you're gonna have to go ahead and spell it out for me so I can walk away. You don't want me."

"But I do." The words are a surprise even to Enjolras, but they're true. "I want you. I want that." There's a pool of heat in his belly and a tightness in his pants that confirms the sentiment. "Please. Kiss me."

Grantaire apparently does not need to be asked twice.

Before Enjolras knows it his back is up against the wall, and it feels rough through his shirt, but Grantaire feels warm and wonderful against his front. And even more wonderful - his lips. The artist clearly knows what he's doing. Enjolras feels - drunk. It’s surprisingly nice without the alcohol-induced nausea and loss of control.

He wraps a hand around the back of Grantaire's neck, for something to do. He's not very experienced in this area, but apparently the other man is happy enough, because he sighs into Enjolras's mouth. And, well. Enjolras sort of understands why people do this now. This mad dash for each other's lips and bodies in neglect of their work. His speeches, the still unfinished banners...those things don’t seem to matter right now. Not when - well, he and Grantaire both have a very insistent _issue_ to take care of.

He'll have to thank Courfeyrac for his fashion advice later.

Much, much later.


End file.
